


Four Symbols

by NombreNoir



Category: Led Zeppelin, the yardbirds
Genre: Drabbles, Fluff, M/M, Slash, possibly smut?
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-06-29
Updated: 2021-02-02
Packaged: 2021-03-04 02:21:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 18
Words: 12,477
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24935953
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NombreNoir/pseuds/NombreNoir
Summary: Just various and sundry LZ oneshots of varying quality.I do try to represent rarer ships quite frequently.I know, I’m doing a brilliant job pitching this, I’m sure you’re all hooked.
Relationships: Jeff Beck/Jimmy Page, Jimmy Page/Robert Plant, John Bonham/Jimmy Page, John Bonham/John Paul Jones, John Bonham/Robert Plant, John Paul Jones/Jimmy Page, John Paul Jones/Robert Plant, Peter Grant/Robert Plant
Comments: 47
Kudos: 69





	1. Allowed

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Beck/Page

Young people are allowed to experiment. Aren’t they? They are allowed. Expected, even. That’s what being young is for, is having a pretty friend who gives you feelings you don’t want to talk about, a friend who’s awfully comfortable putting his hand on your leg or shoulder, light as a snowflake and yet a heavy weight. 

That’s what Jeff tells himself, anyway. Everyone has moments of doubt. Young people question themselves, it happens. It’s a normal, healthy phase, which one day will pass. You’re only being normal, and you are definitely not in love with Jimmy Page. 

It’s not always easy to believe, though, especially when Jimmy’s right there, sitting next to him on the floor high as a kite, leaning a head on Jeff’s shoulder now that he’s too tired and stoned to even hold his own torso up. 

“You know, I could just die like this.” He says softly; he always speaks  _ so _ softly. 

“Maybe, Jim.” He gives a non-answer, unsure of what to say but lacking the inhibition to stay quiet. 

“What’s even-“ he pauses, nonplussed, choosing his words. “Everything in the world. Overrated. Boring.” 

“You’re just bitter that Jackie left.” Jeff tries to gently laugh at him, rope off the ledge before he has to talk him down from it. 

“Yeah, I guess I am.” Jimmy says it with humor, and then is silent, letting his assent reverberate around the room and eventually dissipate into the air while he takes the blunt from Jeff’s hand and delicately pushes it between his perfect little rosebud lips. “Jeff?”

“Hm?”

“How come I’m always the one in trouble with girls? How come this stuff never happens to you?”  _ Oh, if only you knew.  _

“Well, my friend, I had the good sense to be born ugly.” Jeff laughs, but Jimmy only furrows his brow. 

“I don’t think so.” 

Jeff doesn’t know what to say to that, how he could ever respond without giving himself away, but before he can even try, he accidentally glances to his right. He is caught, unable to look away from the way Jimmy is looking at him. Looking at him like he knows him, like he can maybe even love him anyway. Jimmy’s so close, it would be so easy for Jeff to place a hand under his chin, in his hair, pull him in. . . 

The moment passes. Jimmy abruptly asks if Jeff would like something to drink, and then runs off to fetch it before he’s even properly answered. Jeff tells himself that Jimmy’s wearing such ridiculously tight trousers, anyone would be forgiven for noticing the juncture of his willowy thighs and tiny little ass.  _ Jesus Christ I am so monumentally fucked. _

And not even in the way he wants to be.


	2. Salsify

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bonham/Jones

How does he get to go around dressed like that? It isn’t fair. To be so pretty, so perfect in every way, and then to be such a deliberate tease, he really hasn’t given Bonzo much of a chance at all. 

At least, it seems like he’s been flirting. For some time. That certain way he had of casting his eyes, beckoning. Looks and touches that would linger far longer than was necessary or appropriate. Little comments, compliments said in a sultry, reverent tone. 

Bonzo still accepts that he could be deluding himself, assumes so even. 

And then there was today. Jones had shown up in a loose, white blouse, sea-green embroidery near the bottom, so thin that it was transparent. One could see his nipples, every dip and divot of peach-pale flesh if they wanted to. And then, the shirt ended with dark, crushed velvet trousers wrapped snugly around his waist like ribbons on a maypole. 

And the way he had looked at him, the way he’d swayed standing right there next to him. There has to be _something_ to that. 

Bonzo has to find him.   
  


He comes across a small hill, more a lump in the earth than anything else. Jones sits there surrounded by tall, verdant weeds, including salsifies that look like giant dandelions, or puffs of silver candy floss. He is picking the flowers, blowing their seeds away, repeating the action like a ritual, totally focused. 

He only looks up when Bonzo moves to stand right in front of him at the foot of the incline, casting a shadow upon the little waif. 

“Hello.” Jones says it a little breathily, as if caught off guard. He looks right into Bonzo’s eyes, unashamed and unafraid, and stretches his hand out to offer a salsify. 

“Do you have any idea what you’re wearing?” Bonzo decides against pussyfooting around it. Jones demurs. 

“I do, in fact.” A beat of silence. “But if you find yourself tempted to sin, why is that any fault of mine?” He speaks very quietly, forcing Bonzo to lean in. He also does so with a slight lilt, flirtatious and coy, and one corner of his mouth pricked up. _That little mink knows what he’s doing._ Bonzo decides to take a risk, pushes Jones down with one paw on his chest, leans over him with his knees framing the other man’s thighs, face right overhead. Jones can’t help but blush, dropping the salsify to the leave-strewn ground. 

“A man could be forgiven for thinking,” Bonzo states in a low voice, “that you’re deliberately leading me on.” Jones regained his coquettish confidence, answering back, 

“I just might be.” Then, much softer, pushing his hand through Bonzo’s hair in a painful display of tenderness, “What are you going to do about it?” 

They’re kissing, all of a sudden, so instinctual that Bonzo hardly even thinks about it. One of Jones’ hands stays in his hair, grabbing at the back, pushing him down into his greedy mouth. The other sneaks up his back, under his shirt, aimlessly grasping for purpose, eager to feel flesh. Bonzo didn’t notice his knee shoving itself between Jones’ legs, now clenched shut around it. He hardly notices his hand cupping the shorter man’s jaw, or his other one roaming over his torso.

Blearily triumphant, Bonzo breaks away to catch his breath, certain that this will be a long night.


	3. Ruby

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bonham/Page

He’s tiny. So small. When John holds him, his hands almost encircle Jimmy’s rib cage; the bones fanning out from his sides seem to be the only support beams propping up his milky skin. 

He likes to be held, more and more these days. Too scared that he can’t stand on his own, grown too reliant on Bonzo’s strength, even though he knows what a sham that is.. 

John is sure, way deep down inside, that he can only hold Jimmy because he is so small. So contained within himself, whatever tiny particles of emotion trickled out were enough for Bonzo to handle. If Jimmy ever shares all of himself, well, John wouldn’t be able to handle that. Jonesy might. Percy probably wouldn’t. 

Frustrates him like hell, holding Jimmy, pretending that he can keep him safe and stable, when he can’t even take that basic care of himself. 

They’re on a couch, holed up in a grimy, god forsaken little motel where some poor girl had been murdered not two hours before. It happened right next door to Jimmy’s room, and the poor superstitious little thing has been too scared. He’d gone to John’s room, almost childlike in his seeking comfort and protection from the Big Strong Man. 

The blinds are broken, a neon sign on the opposite street casting a cherry red pool of light upon the shag carpeting. It makes the raindrops on the window glitter like rubies. John marveles at the stunning beauty of a neon sign in front of a trashy strip club across the street from a murder motel. 

Jimmy takes his face out of John’s neck, leans up, and kisses him. Grabs his chin, fingers as strong as flower stalks. Poppy stalks. John takes too long to start kissing back; Jimmy now assumes that he doesn’t want it. 

He reaches down to Jimmy’s little face, pulls it up to his without effort. He can still feel those slim fingers digging into the supple flesh of his sides, hates it but doesn’t say a thing. Kisses him long and good, before looking over at the grimy bed suggestively. 

“Not yet,” Jimmy says, undoing John’s belt more as a matter of procedure than of passion. John bats his hands away, kisses him for real this time. Jimmy immediately falls back on the couch, trusting; John could completely take charge if he wanted to. 

But he isn’t sure he’d be able.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am trying to write some of the rarer ones, thus, have this pretentious little nothing.


	4. Being

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Plant/Grant

He knows he isn’t supposed to enjoy this, wasn’t supposed to agree in the first place, but Jesus. It’s so good. Legs spread wide as can be, riding like a mechanical bull. Every buck of the hips sends him up into the air, makes him see white. 

Robert hopes that this will be something, doesn’t want to be one more in a long list of drunken mistakes. He has decided against asking, hopeful that they will naturally fall together or just pretend this never happened. 

They have finished; Robert allows himself to fall. He lets himself be the small one, lets himself be held. He rests his head upon Peter’s shoulder, an arm thrown over his waist, content and tired enough that he should be able to sleep. 

Instead, however, Robert stares at the ceiling. 

He doesn’t want to want this. He’s terrified of being- or being labeled- a dumb floozy, fucking an older male authority figure to symbolically reconcile with the father he’d never felt accepted by. Robert also fears being thought of as a ladder climber, pity-fucking the management in a pathetic attempt to gain power and renown. And yet, here he is, incapable of resisting. 

Peter is asleep already; Robert merely squeezes a little tighter, presses himself up against the other man in case this is a one-time mistake. But no matter how hard Robert tries, he can’t seem to make himself feel the horrified remorse that he logically knows he should be feeling about now. 

He knows he’s only supposed to fuck pretty little things, slim and young and beautiful like himself. Robert could be forgiven, he thinks, for loving an ugly creature, so long as they were particularly clever or talented, and not much older. Hell, he isn’t even supposed to fuck any blokes at all, let alone let one fuck him. And if that isn’t bad enough, he let himself be fucked by a fat, balding man, ugly as they come, more than a decade his senior and his boss too. 

A breeze comes in; Robert panics that they’ve left the window open. It’s the fourteenth floor, he reasons, who could see? 

Robert knows, deep down, beyond shallow matters of appearance and optics, that he really loves Peter, as much as he’s loved anyone. He likes to be defended, untouchable, safe enough to float through his suddenly-frivolous life without fear. He likes having someone backstage, reliably present at every pre-show meltdown, someone there to tell him that he is, in fact, not a failure, a star, actually. The only person that would tell him those things. The only man in the world. 

Robert almost gets up to close the damned window; he can hear roughly four floors of utter chaos above and below him. He realizes, however, that that would mean leaving his position, having to readjust himself halfway underneath his sleeping giant. He decides against it, merely burying his ears in a pillow and praying for Morpheus to sweep him away before he starts to question any more of his life choices or sexual proclivities. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeah remember what I said about rare ships?


	5. Citrus

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Very basic Jimbert stuff here

Robert’s got the most immature sense of humor. Jimmy loves it. He’s brought him to a goddamned citrus plantation. The lemons aren’t yet ripe enough to pick, but so close that they weigh down the branches. Robert has assured him that they won’t ripen until long after the end of their little sojourn- no one will bother them. 

The trees aren’t tall enough to provide any real shade; some of them are shorter than Robert. The light turns his hair violently gold, from the color of honey to the actual metal. Jimmy becomes fixated, watching the hues and highlights and shades twirl and twist on his head, curls bouncing slightly as Robert walked, chirping along happily about some book or another. This is why Jimmy doesn’t notice a stray root in his path, and hardly manages to break his fall. 

He doesn’t mind the ground, actually. Soft, warm, strewn with stray leaves and blossoms. He writhes around upon it when Robert decides to pounce on him, finally letting his limbs give way so the singer can pin him down. Jimmy is unused to this position, but Robert is far stronger and heavier than he’ll ever hope to be, so he considers himself conquered. 

Robert, however, seems to find Jimmy’s breathy damsel act very entertaining, kissing him very lightly between his eyes before standing up, moving on. 

As they go onwards, the lemon trees are replaced with- Jimmy doesn’t know if they’re tangerines or oranges. Whatever they are, the fresh sweetness of their scent clouds the warm, dry air so heavily that Jimmy half expects to be able to see it. 

Robert suddenly stops, takes him to one of the trees, sits him down. Jimmy watches him reach up to grab a fruit, long and lithe, sit back down halfway on top of him, and slice open its orange skin with his thumbnail. Robert peels it with ease, hardly even noticing the tough skin as he throws it away to reveal the soft sweetness underneath. Once peeled, Jimmy stares on as Robert bites into the thing like an apple, amber liquid pouring down his chin, some even dribbling onto his nearly bare chest. 

Jimmy, who’d almost come to see himself as one with the orange on an emotional level, struggles not to ravish his coworker in the middle of a field. 

Robert holds it out to him in offering. Jimmy just leans in and kisses him, deep, trying to gage what he’s being offered. He licks at Percy’s chin a bit, which makes him squirm. He even bends down, flicks his tongue out at the droplet on Robert’s collarbone, before straightening up and eating the third of the orange that Robert saved for him, as the former stares at him with his warm, orange mouth hanging open in undisguised lust and shock. It could just be the juice, but Robert’s blush even looks orange, making his cheekbones look especially rounded and warm. 


	6. Honey

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Plant/Jones

Robert doesn’t know what they have, but he loves it. They’ve never properly talked about it; he doesn’t mind at all. Why try to define and study something illusory and beautiful? Just enjoy it. 

He could fret, wallowing in self-doubt and loneliness because they’d never said anything about love. Or he could pull Jonesy onto his lap again, met with no resistance, and let him kiss him, warm and pliant. He’s like honey, all unconventional sweetness, yielding and soft. 

It’s always unstated, but there’s a strong affection between them. Robert’s had friends with benefits before, and he’s never gotten so many benefits. 

There’s the sex, obviously. Robert absolutely loves the sex. They still haven’t quite established a hierarchy, so there’s always this thrilling tension at the beginning. And Jonesy doesn’t lack for enthusiasm or skill, no matter where he ends up.

But there are other benefits, too, benefits he doesn’t usually get from friends. 

Jonesy had, over time, slowly begun to tolerate more and more non-sexual affection, to the point where they can just hold each other and say nothing of it; it is nothing but what it is. 

It’s a different kind of sweetness than he’s used to. It’s like honey, real honey, from the country, where you can have a taste and determine what kind of flower it came from. 

On his lap, John has started winding his arms around Robert’s torso, slipping them between him and the chair he occupied. He reaches around and grabs them, yanks them back around to place them in his hair. He isn’t particularly horny yet. Instead, he decides to go for a slow-burn kind of on-and-off making out, like teenage virgins. If Jonesy minds, he keeps it to himself. 

Robert decides to hold his hand, such a classic romantic gesture, so far from anything sexual, that he almost thinks this will be the thing that ends it, the moment Jonesy finally draws a line about what they are, cements it as nothing more than fuckbuddies. 

John just takes his hand, squeezes it. Head on his shoulder, no hard feelings. The feelings are fluid, but they’re sweet. Honey. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I keep thinking I’m going to update in groups of five because it’s a nice, clean number to count by, and then as soon as I finish two my progress on the other three slows to a crawl.


	7. Allowed II/Far Away

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Page/Beck

Jimmy isn’t entirely sure if he loves Jeff. But he couldn’t be surer that Jeff loves him. So, for him, Jimmy makes allowances. He allows himself to be doted on, allows roughly-hewn, calloused hands on his waist, allows another man’s tongue in his dainty little mouth. He allows Jeff to see him, instead of just looking. Allows Jeff to see him with a flushed face and parted legs like a maiden, lets Jeff see him cry. And, in an act of remarkable mercy, he even lets Jeff do something, on those occasions. Allows him to deflower him, to console him. 

He pretends that he is showing mercy to Jeff, rather than himself. 

They study together, often. At the same art school. Jeff likes to do sloppy charcoals of Jimmy while he isn’t looking, tells him his face was made for art. Jimmy allows it. Jeff takes some convincing; he apparently doesn’t think so highly of his own face. Jimmy, however, has grown tired of painting perfect little cherubs. 

Sometimes they paint together. It has some kind of infuriating beauty, if such a thing can exist. Jimmy hates, and yet loves, to see the exact same subject with his own eye for detail and then Jeff’s perfect ambiance. 

They sit, side by side, supposedly doing a mandatory still life. Jimmy, however, has long since become distracted, putting all his effort into depicting the view out the window. He is, he finds, becoming obsessed with the illusory color of Far Away. This is because Jeff has far away eyes. They have been taught that the distant areas in a landscape should get bluer- a dark, ambiguous color which draws no attention to itself, despite its own beauty. 

Very suiting for Jeff, he thinks. 

Jeff is also bored of the still life; he keeps looking over at Jimmy’s piece, which at this point is only a rough outline and a few frustrated smears of Far Away Blue out the window. 

“What’s, ah, what’s your plan there, Jim?”

“I dunno. I was thinking I’d spend all afternoon mixing paint, and then get bored and fuck you.”

“Not a terrible idea, all told.” 

“Not my best either.” Jeff just shrugs, giving up on his work, looking at Jimmy with those far away eyes. A color he knows so well, and yet cannot seem to capture.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, this one seemed like my best while I was writing it; now it seems more like two half-ideas stitched together, bon appetite.


	8. Moonlight

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Jones/Bonham

There’s a full moon tonight. Jonesy keeps trying to ignore it, but finds the task impossible. It’s right there in their window, casting its stolen light upon the bed. With all the default white hotel bedding, it looks as if they’re bathing in a puddle of light. Very romantic, if mildly grating. 

The sheets are damp with sweat, he rolls over onto Bonzo instead. He places his head right on John’s collarbone. Jonesy isn’t  _ that  _ much shorter than Bonzo, but he knows that he finds the height difference cute, so he doesn’t mind playing it up a bit. In fact, he feels that that makes him the bigger man. Jonesy nearly laughs at his own joke. 

John looks different in the moonlight. His skin seems paler and his hair black, eyes and facial hair and mouth reduced to dark slashes upon an unmarked surface. Still Jonesy can see the way he’s looking at him. He’s grown accustomed to that soft, trusting reverence. That intimacy. 

He doesn’t think anyone’s been as intimate with him as Bonzo. Whatever it is, talking, playing, fucking, he always manages to get so  _ close _ . It’s much more than just intimate between them. It’s more like John’s flipped him inside out and then back again, like he’s been totally rearranged and put back to normal before he’s got a proper grasp on what’s happened. 

It’s cooler now, at night, in the light of the moon. Still unfairly hot. He probably only thinks that because he’s already sweaty. They get so goddamned hot every time, Bonzo’s default setting is fast and hard and passionate, always so intense. Not that Jonesy minds. Not that he wouldn’t stop if asked. Not that he can’t or hasn’t slowed down and been gentle. 

But tonight had been the rule, not the exception, so they’re both damp and exhausted and ruddy. Red flesh is hardly pink in the light of the moon. The slightly damp sheets only add to the illusion, like they really are soaking in their own little pool of silver. The creases are like ripples, originating from the disturbance of their bodies’ presence. 

He can feel the other petting his hair, leans his head into it oh so slightly. Not to seem desperate for affection, despite both of them knowing that that is absolutely true.

Now begins the cool down, the reliable, steady slow of heartbeats and breath rates dragging on through the night. Jonesy knows that this is John’s favorite part, when their bones are liquid and their minds lost in a haze of pleasure. That sort of illusory euphoria is complimented by the nighttime glaze of moonlight, which casts a sort of enchantment on all that it touches. 

Finally, they drift back down into reality as the moon rotates. Jonesy’s face is in the dark, the sharp line of the window’s shadow falling on the top of his head where Bonzo’s chin is.


	9. Luck

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Plant/Page, minor content warning for implied emotional negligence

Robert’s sort of like Cinderella, he thinks, which is odd, because he’s always looked a bit like a prince. He’s been told so, at any rate. And yet here he is, a poor pretty little thing miraculously saved, plucked from poverty and obscurity by someone famous and rich and beautiful, charming, cultured, powerful, talented- by Jimmy. By Jimmy Page. 

Really, he struggles to believe it. That a pop star who’d toured America, gone all over three different continents, would end up inspired by some teenaged nobody out in the middle of the black county. Would want to work with him. Would fuck him. He is Cinderella, he thinks, undeniably lucky. 

Jimmy, for his part, is rather aristocratic. He has a way of holding himself, a way of conducting himself in all things. Poised and elegant, like he’s been trained, but somehow staying casual and flexible. He moves like a snake. He likes to grab Robert’s wrist while he takes him to bed, holds tight and pulls hard, always in the lead, always in control. 

He’s particularly frustrated tonight; Robert can feel it. He never would’ve thought that slim little Jimmy could be strong enough to hurt him, but he’s quickly discovered that that is not the case. Jimmy’s very good at hurting him. He’s asked him to be gentle, explained that Jimmy is the first man he’s had, nagged and pleaded and whimpered, but it doesn’t work. For all Jimmy likes being in control, he’s not very good at controlling himself. When he’s mad, he goes hard and fast, and Robert just has to manage to avoid him or learn to like having his head thrown up against the headboard with every thrust. 

But he’s still so lucky. He’s Cinderella. There’s probably half a million girls would kill to be where he is. If it weren’t for Jimmy, he’d be laying fucking tarmac in the middle of nowhere. And Jimmy is quite a catch, Robert thinks. He’s smart, witty, so fun to talk to. He says they’ll probably keep Robert on as a vocalist, if he starts pulling his weight more with the writing, which is one of the nicest things he’s been told, musically.

When he finishes, Robert debates whether to ask him what the trouble is. If it’s his fault, they’ll have to have an argument, a routine he loathes with all his gorgeous being. But, if it isn’t, then he becomes the observant, compassionate lover. He risks it. 

Jimmy’s ire is some petty grievance with a newspaper, nothing for Robert to be concerned about or blamed for. He gets a little smile for his interest, and Jimmy even lets himself be held, an affectionate, tender gesture that he usually hates because of how small he seems- how small he feels- with Robert wrapped around him.

Nonetheless, tonight Robert is lucky. He gets to have and give the gentle affection others could only dream of. He gets to feel Jimmy’s silky hair brush against his chin, little gusts of heat on his collarbone with every exhale. For the rest of tonight, Jimmy Page is his; Robert can’t believe his luck.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This wasn’t supposed to be nearly as dark as it ended up being; bon appetite


	10. Pervert

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bonham/Plant

His mum hates Robert. Finds him a waster and pervert, aimlessly drifting through life. She hates the raggedy hippy clothes, the pounds of cheap costume jewelry, the blues, hates his mischievous little smile and the little harmonica he takes everywhere like a fetish. She especially hates that her son likes Robert so much, finds him so charming and plays in his band. 

She still lets him stay at their place. As if she could’ve turned him away. That poor thing, so young, shivering and hungry. So grateful for the barest hospitality of a roof and a meal, so ashamed to have to ask it of them in the first place. Always happy, though. It took Bonzo an embarrassingly long time to realize that he was even struggling. Robert has the brightest smile, big and crooked and warm. Too big, sometimes, like he’s trying to pretend he doesn’t see the horror around him. 

He  _ is _ kind of a pervert, if John’s being honest. Or at least one of the horniest people he’s ever met. And his social circle is entirely teenage boys. Robert’s always flirting with anything that moves, the mic stand always finds its way between his legs. He never stops by without getting off in the bathroom. Robert’s had scores of girls, at least half as many blokes. That’s the part, thank god, the other Bonhams don’t know. Robert’s parents might. John doesn’t know. Robert always says that he left home, rather than being kicked out, but he never goes into great detail. 

They share a bed, often. If Robert doesn’t find someplace else to spend the night. He’s very warm. Burning up, almost. Like John has the sun right there laying by his side. They’re always so close, right there. 

Tonight John’s that special slurry of buzzed and horny and impulsive that tells him to go for it. He reaches over and grabs Robert’s hand. It is warm with very slight callouses, and when Robert immediately squeezes back, John can feel the strength.

They don’t take it any farther than that, not yet. Slowly, in infuriatingly small increments, Robert inches closer. The country autumn had come early this year, and even with the windows closed the chill is palpable. It finds a way under their woolen blankets, under their clothes, seeps into their very marrow. Thus, John tells himself that it’s a simple matter of body heat. 

He grows impatient, takes hold of Robert’s waist and drags him until his long, perfect body is pressed snug up against John’s. Robert rotates, disconnects their hands, wraps his arms around John’s shoulders. They exchange no words; John doesn’t think either of them have a clue what to say. 

Robert’s far closer, loosely throws his own ankle over John’s. Daring.  _ Pervert _ . John opens his mouth, as if he was going to say something, but he hesitates. He can’t think of the right words, but he’s not willing to shut his mouth again without saying something. Robert gets the wrong idea, leans in and kisses him, wet and warm without any tongue. John just presses into him, and suddenly, the cold isn’t a problem any more.  _ Shit, maybe  _ I’m _ a perv.  _


	11. Rain

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Plant/Page

“Has anyone ever told you how cute you are when you’re trying not to sleep?” His love asks out of the blue. Jimmy lifts his head from Robert’s chest to look into his face.

“I don’t believe that they have, Percy.” Said man nods. 

“Now you know.” Jimmy finds that sort of funny, softly snorts out half of a chuckle. They’re in a hammock, having a very idyllic afternoon. Jimmy doesn’t know where they are, couldn’t find this place on a map if his life depended on it, but it doesn’t matter, not necessarily. They’re in a hammock in a field somewhere, side by side, surrounded by wildflowers and all other kinds of life. That had been perfect for a while, wrapped up in one another, softly swaying in the breeze- which had been mercifully cool for July.

They should’ve taken that small blessing as a warning, Jimmy thinks. The wind had picked up, almost to an uncomfortable extent. He suggested that they leave, but Robert only pulled him a little closer, sweetly kissed the top of his head, and very gently called him a pussy. 

It starts to rain very lightly. Cool little pinpricks intermittently fall upon them. Robert throws an arm out and manages to grab the fabric. He tries to drag it over them, but they take up too much space. 

“C’mere.” Robert rolls Jimmy onto his narrow torso, nearly strong enough to do it on his own. Jimmy goes limp, sinks into his lover’s body while the spare hammock fabric is thrown over their forms. They’re all wrapped up now, in the cloth and one another, a nice cocoon to keep the world out. 

That would be nice, to keep the world out. Out of their minds, out of their business. Jimmy knows logically how lucky they are to have a public. That’s how they pay the bills, how they get to be creative, hell it’s how they met in the first place. But it can be so incredibly grating. To get an entire lecture from his boss; the Great Jimmy Page could not possibly be homosexual, oh no. And to be fucking his singer? The scandal would be legendary, but they’d never work again. Jimmy hates to admit that his career is more important to him that Robert, tries to convince himself that Percy’s the one he’s trying to look out for by being so cautious. 

The rain is picking up now, the hammock sways less and less gently by the minute. Jimmy wants to go, but he knows how Robert loves the smell of rain, the sensation of getting wet, the crisp air after the storm’s settled. He doesn’t say anything, thus. 

And they  _ are _ cautious. Jimmy’s a Capricorn, he knows how to be deliberating and precise. They can never go anywhere public, just the two of them. The only ‘dates’ Jimmy lets them go on outside of their houses are like this, some field in the middle of nowhere. No one can see them because no one would look. 

No matter how cautious they are, neither of them can ever free themself from the paranoia. Little careless moments, an accidental hand on a hip or sideways glance, these things can ruin Jimmy’s whole week, send him into a tailspin of suspicion and apprehension. Robert’s grown used to his catastrophizing, late night panic sessions, knows what to say. He still hasn’t quite realized that Jimmy, too, can sense his unease. No matter how hard they work to stay hidden, neither of them really ever believes that they’ve succeeded.

It’s raining harder now; Jimmy can feel it pelting him even through the multicolored covering. 

“Can we leave?”

“It’s not going to hurt you, darling. You’re not a witch. Are you?”

“Oh of course I am, remember? Satan-worshipping cannibal sorcerer Jimmy Page? Ring any bells?”

“Oh yeah, my cute little baby. Who’s afraid of water in literally any form.” 

“I’m not scared of it, just tired.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know the metaphor is really basic and kinda sloppy, but, I choose to view that as a reflection of life itself.
> 
> Oh also, idk where or how to say this, but there’s nothing quite like getting kudos from talented writers whose skill you admire and whose work you enjoy, so, thank you all


	12. July

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Plant/Bonham

“Isn’t it a holiday over here?” There are fireworks going off. 

“Must be.” John nods at that. Robert struggles for something to say. “Isn’t this the day they left us?”

“Hm?”

“The day England lost the colonies, yeah? And that’s why. . . America?”

“Oh yeah.” Bonzo mostly wants to watch the dazzling display. Robert stays quiet, turns his eyes to the night. No stars are visible, it seems that’s a luxury for country boys only, and the moon is but a sliver of light. He remembers when they were young, Bonzo had said that the crescent moon reminded him of a fingernail clipping. He was promptly and appropriately mocked, but the comparison always stuck with Robert. The only illumination available is the fireworks, all the ribbons of sparkling colors insulting to nature. He can see the garish tones shining on John’s face.

“Bit noisy, innit?”

“Since when were you a pussy about noise?” Robert only shrugs. 

“I like good noises. With, you know, rhythm and stuff. Not this. Not just. . . senseless banging.”

“You’ve always seemed to like the senseless banging, Percy.” John smiles at his own immature joke, showing off the crooked tombstone teeth endowed to him by his own country. 

“Not at all. When I bang, I make sure there’s plenty of sense and rhythm to it.”

“Oh I bet you do.”

“You know I do.”

“Yeah.” John trails off, shrugging an arm around Robert’s shoulders and turning his face back to the sky. Robert’s growing bored of the display. 

“Doesn’t it seem. . . wrong,” he asks after a few minutes, “for us to celebrate?”

“Hm?”

“I just mean. . .”  _ What  _ do _ I mean? _ “It’s so American.” 

“Homesick then?”

“No,” Robert lies, “it just seems rather treasonous of us, celebrating America.” 

“That’s bollocks; you don’t like it because we wouldn’t be doing it if we were back home.” 

“We wouldn’t, would we?” He whispers, repeating himself much louder so John can hear. “Don’t act like you don’t get homesick.”

“‘Course I do.” John watches the fireworks a bit longer while the other waits for him to elaborate. “I just don’t think about it very much. You can’t; you’ll just drive yourself mad.” Robert wants to laugh. That’s the problem; Bonzo always reminds him of home, whether he wants to or not. Too many memories.

The first year was awful, getting thrown out of bars and remembering the pubs back home, where they  _ were _ old enough, where they knew all the other patrons. Robert grew out a mustache and could only be reminded of his teenage years, so impossibly jealous that Bonzo had real facial hair while he could, at most, muster a pathetic little shadow upon his upper lip. Really, any time they’re together- which is the slight majority of the time- Robert can’t help but be nostalgic and silently pine for the old days, when everything was so simple between them. 

John just reminds him of home. For a while, he literally was, back when Robert didn’t have any. He’d been so embarrassed of their crowded little house, but after a few months of sleeping anywhere with a roof (if he was lucky), it was a haven. 

That’s why they’d gotten so much closer once the band started, he thinks. The first time they went, America was this horrifying and strange place, so far removed from what they knew that they instinctually gravitated towards the thing they recognized: one another. Robert looks back on it with a fond sort of humor now, but it took them that entire tour to grow comfortable sleeping in a room without each other.

Not that he doesn’t still prefer that to the alternative. John’s always very warm, not terrible in bed, and, of course, familiar. Not like this. Robert tries to remember if he’s ever seen a huge firework display like this back home. He doubts it. 

Most of the time, he’s keen enough to embrace it. Let himself believe that he is a mystical nomad, a brave hero venturing into unknown lands. But tonight he’s just tired. July in America is so much hotter than it has any right to be. There are bugs out, no stars, all the light is gaudy and man made. Nothing here is real. 

John’s real. Robert has to come to him to remind himself that he’s real too. John’s always so like home. Rough around the edges, definitely, without a shadow of a doubt. But so sweet, so warm and whole and good. 

“Independence day!” John says, out of nowhere.

“I’m sorry?”

“That’s what today is. The holiday, I mean.”

“Oh. I thought it was the Fourth of July.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Publishing the weaker ones out of this batch first. Also yeah, apparently for most of the first LZ tour those two were actually unable to sleep without each other in the room, so, that’s a thing


	13. Bruise

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Page/Jones

His eyes are the color of bruises. Jimmy was never good at coming up with complimentary symbolism. It’s his greatest fault, he thinks. That has nothing to do with it. He has a new coworker, they call him Jonesy because there are too many Johns to keep track of, and his eyes are like bruises. Sort of a dull, dark blue-gray. The blue in them looks the most vivid when you aren’t expecting it, or at least when Jimmy isn’t. 

Dull is maybe the wrong word; what he means is opaque. Sort of like this Jones. They’ve been in the same employ for some time, played tens of sessions together, and Jimmy can’t figure him out. And like the poor word choice, it’s easy to take Jones’ quiet demeanor as evidence that there isn’t much interesting to him. 

Jimmy’s not convinced of this. It’s impressive enough to be as young as he is- younger than Jimmy- doing session work. He’s absurdly talented, not just at bass, but seemingly every other instrument under the sun. He arranges, too. But he doesn’t brag. He doesn’t complain, either. Never makes any bother for anyone. 

And just like the blue, Jonesy can light up at the strangest times. You have to pay attention, as Jimmy has been, but he can be quite funny, in a dry sort of way, completely out of nowhere. It’s not always easy to tell if he’s joking, but Jimmy’s definitely been improving on that front. And Jonesy, quiet little thing though he is, really loves it when people catch his little asides. Every time Jimmy chuckles he is rewarded with one of John’s crooked little smiles, sudden and brief but surprisingly warm. He wants more of that. 

The day comes when he’s finally able to intercept Jonesy before he leaves- always so quick, so efficient and professional- and get himself invited over. It’s a much nicer flat than he’d expected, fully equipped with a Hammond organ and more grass than Jimmy’s ever seen in one place. It’s curiously empty, however. At least, the room Jimmy’s allowed in is empty, other than the organ. He wants to enter the other room, but he doesn’t want to ask. He wants to be invited. However, it doesn’t seem like this is likely to happen, at least not any time soon. 

Halfway through his visit, Jimmy still hasn’t managed to pry any information out of John. Despite being high, supposedly with lowered inhibitions, he remains curiously skilled at keeping to himself. They discuss all sorts of things, nothing that Jimmy really cares about or will remember later, but it’s immensely entertaining in the moment. Jonesy, when alone, can be quite witty, cultured and bright, fun even. He almost fills the empty room on his own. 

Eventually, after quite a few of these visits, Jimmy is allowed into the bedroom. It’s too dark to see anything, but there’s an object near the bed that twangs as he trips over it. He falls all the way onto the bed, disrobing immediately. Jonesy seems to be doing the same in the dark, and he finds his way on top of Jimmy quickly. John still doesn’t allow Jimmy inside, can’t seem to make himself vulnerable. He kisses with an open mouth but won’t allow any tongue, doesn’t tolerate a hand up between his thighs. 

In the morning, Jimmy watches the sun rise from behind the thin curtains of John’s bedroom. As the sky lightens, the meager pink illumination is enough to vaguely see the room where Jonesy actually lives, disheveled sheets stained with Jimmy, a threadbare rug and a few pieces of furniture, stray sheets of paper strewn all over, as well as a few instruments- most of which he recognizes. Jimmy can feel the warm weight of the other man on his chest, suddenly so small and frail. He shouldn’t be here, he thinks suddenly. Does he really want to know Jones? Does Jonesy want to be known? He has to get out. 

Trying to leave, Jimmy immediately wakes John up with a loud creak as he steps on a bruise in the wood of the floor. He didn’t know it was there. Jonesy groans a little, rolls over. He gazes at Jimmy blearily. 

“Oh, sorry, I was just going to-”

“Yeah, I know.” John says it so quietly, so breathy and forlorn. 

“No, just, I mean, the loo, I was just going to go use the loo. Is all.” He can hardly meet the other’s eyes, which have turned the darkest, dullest, sunken bruise-gray under the sparse lighting. Jonesy doesn’t believe him- because he knows- but is too polite to say anything. He only nods, rolls over, goes back to sleep, clearly expecting Jimmy to be gone by the time he wakes again. 

So he stays, because what else could he do? Jimmy wanted to know him, and now he does. Almost. He can’t just go now; he’d leave a bruise. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one’s kinda wild bc I wrote it about five minutes before I published it, so I don’t really remember actually putting these words down in this order.


	14. Locked

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bonham/Jones

Bonzo stumbles through the hallways, getting ever closer to what he’s looking for. Room D69. That will be his haven for tonight. He knows Jonesy is expecting him there. He can somehow feel his disappointment before he even reaches the room. 

That’s how it goes. Jonesy has gotten so tired of their antics that he books himself another place entirely, doesn’t tell anyone where he’ll be staying, save his personal roadie. He knows how it gets under Jimmy’s skin, Peter’s too, that they can’t have that basic power and intimacy in his life. He doesn’t care. Bonzo thinks that Jones enjoys it, somewhat. Jimmy isn’t the only one with a sadistic streak; he’s just clumsier about hiding it. 

But he gets to know. John Henry is always told. The real question is whether he’ll be able to remember come night. Half of the time. Tonight he remembers. Couldn’t forget if he tried. 

“I’m staying in D69.” Jones had told him emphatically. 

“Ha, like-“

“Yes, like the funny sex number. I requested it so you wouldn’t forget.” He’d felt halfway offended at that, but now that his mind is addled and his perception murky, he begrudgingly accepts that he would’ve forgotten anything else. He should be ashamed that John has to request stupid jokey room numbers so he won’t forget every night when he stumbles in drunk, but that’s become so routine for them that he starts to take it for granted. That’s what happens; that’s what they do. He knows Jonesy hates it, almost nearly as much as he does, but he doesn’t have the heart to be mad at him most nights. Usually he goes out to find him in the halls, knows he’s forgotten the number and is wandering around out there without aim. On better nights Bonzo doesn’t forget, finds the room waiting with the unlocked door and the sweet little thing inside. Those nights have gotten fewer and farther between. But tonight he remembers. It still counts, John thinks, even with the significant number. 

There it is, room 60 on the D floor. He’s getting close. Finally, Bonzo comes to the right room. He hesitated before opening the door. He knows Jonesy will be relieved that he was lucid enough to find the room on his own, but dreads the conspicuous disappointment in John’s eyes when he smells his breath. 

_There’s only one thing to do now._ He opens the door. Or, he would, were the door not locked.   
  


In that moment, John feels that empty dread one feels deep in their stomach when they try to step onto an extra stair that doesn’t exist. He tries to get over the initial shock, tells himself that there are any number of normal reasons for the door to be locked. Still, John ends up spending at least another minute trying to pull the door open, not that he really thinks that this will work, but because that’s how it’s supposed to work. 

He knocks, gently at first, not wanting to alarm John Paul. No response from the other side of the door. John wants to make himself calm down, but he starts knocking harder and faster soon. Sooner than he’d ever admit. 

This goes on for an embarrassing amount of time before he considers that Jonesy has just left, maybe he was relocated. He can see light under the door, but it might be possible. He’s distressed enough to believe it, at least. 

Going down, asking for John Baldwin’s room, it’s the same. Bonzo finds his way up again, hoping that he’s returned now. Instead, John finds himself in the same position, desperately banging on the door with the funny sex number. This time, he sees a shadow move across the crack under the door, sees that someone’s in there. He speaks, to be recognized. No reply.

It’s only then that it hits him; he’s been locked out on purpose. There again is that cold dread, creeping up his spine. _Why would he_ \- He knows why. Every night, it’s always the same. He stumbles in, Jonesy sighs, wishes he was sober. They both do. He never actually thought he’d do . . . this. There was always so much affection, even in the bitter little asides, John never thought it was a problem. 

And now he’s here, on his knees in the hallway of a hotel. He doesn’t want to be thrown out, but he can’t imagine leaving. Going back to the other hotel would be an unimaginable shame. Jonesy’s bound to cave sometime, right? He always does. He hates witnessing John in pain, and the door can’t be _that_ thick.

Bonzo waits in the hall for another hour, almost picks himself up to go lick his wounds elsewhere, but he’s finally right. The door opens. There Jonesy is, finally come to save him. He looks so tired. 

“Baby I’m so-“ John is cut off. 

“Just- come in.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, like, what’s the vibe? Should this one have a part two, from the other POV?


	15. Night

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Beck/Page

They usually go out at night. Jeff has a car that he’s ridiculously proud of; he takes it to Jimmy’s as often as he can. They go out, stay out all night, come back in the morning. Just like mates are supposed to, right? Go out together, have a bit of fun in the blessedly cool summer night.

Yeah, kind of. 

Every night Jeff feels like he’s stolen the car; he drives with a sort of desperate urgency, like they’ll be caught any minute. His hands are always so tightly clenched around the steering wheel, he wants to go fast but very deliberately stays just under the speed limit, doesn’t make noise, anxious to be unseen. Wary and guilty. Like they’ve robbed a bank or murdered a man, and now it’s only a question of getting away. 

But they haven’t stolen anything, and they’re definitely not getting away. Not for long. 

Jeff pulls up in front of Jimmy’s house, where they can’t really go because of his poor sweet doting mother. He’s already hurried out of his own house, where they can’t go either. He honks his horn to tell Jimmy he’s there. Rude, yes, but they’re just mates, they’re supposed to give each other shit like that. 

Jimmy is out waiting on his porch. He walks over to the car in an unnatural way, clearly wanting to run but trying to look nonchalant. The result is a sort of halting gallop, like one of those new claymation flics. It would be funny if it wasn’t so sad, and Jeff debates whether to tease the other boy for it. 

They depart, too excited to exchange words. Jimmy keeps sneaking glances at Jeff when he thinks he isn’t watching; fucking adorable. He has the look of a child sneaking into the kitchen at night for a treat, getting away with something he knows he shouldn’t. Apt. Jimmy does usually look childish. He has such a cute little face. All his features are tiny and rounded like Tintin, perfect precious little cherub. No matter how tall he is, Jimmy always seems to be tiny, a delicate little thing for Jeff to hold and squeeze and protect. 

The speed through the night. Just like mates. But instead of ending up at a club, Jeff and Jimmy steadily reach the edge of town, where the houses become fewer and farther apart. Finally, they find some dark little place to pull over, one which Jimmy has deemed suitably remote. The two sit in the car for a moment, breathing heavily with anticipation, staring into the night.

“C’mere.” Jeff’s terrible at initiating these things. If it weren’t for Jimmy, he’s sure he’d never survive in those circles. It’d just be girls forever. Which he’s almost fine with. Outside of Jimmy, Jeff’s still not entirely sure that he leans that way at all. Not that he hasn’t tried. He’s looked. He’s seen _those_ magazines and lingered around _those_ bars. Jeff’s ventured into the shops where one finds such things. The fruits of his labor mostly consist of awkward encounters and a few racy postcards. Jeff’s still trying to determine if this is some sort of societal shame or a genuine lack of interest. 

Jimmy haphazardly slings himself over the other. They’re starting now. They’ve only recently started to understand what to do and how, so it’s getting good. Jimmy still fears being caught, so he goes rapidly, barely waiting until the second kiss to reach down with his nimble little hands and start yanking at buttons. Jeff reaches down too, grabs Jimmy’s hands, tries to slow him down. Wants to savor it. 

It isn’t like with a girl. Just as physically stimulating, maybe, but far more pleasurable. There’s something deeper going on when it’s Jimmy. It has that inherent rush of all forbidden vices, a shot of adrenaline combining with all the other expected hormones. But Jeff wants to believe that it’s more than that. It’s Jimmy. They’re so close. They know every inch of each other, inside and out. They’re in love. He thinks. 

They’re still rather clumsy, admittedly. It’s hard to see in the meager light of the moon, and they’re halfway vertical. Add to that adolescent inexperience. Nighttime in Jeff’s car is hardly ideal, but it’s the only way Jimmy doesn’t spend the entire session anxious about being caught. Jeff had thought the forbidden, illicit nature of the thing would’ve turned Jimmy on even more, but that isn’t the case. So they do it here, in the middle of nowhere under cover of night. 

They’re done after what feels like centuries but was probably actually very brief. Jeff wishes he could see Jimmy’s face. He can feel Jimmy panting, every gasping breath wracking his bird-boned frame. The other leans against him, face buried in his neck so Jeff can smell his hair. He holds him as tight as he dares. 

They stay like that for the moment, tangled together like grapevines, cooling down in the gentle warmth of a summer night. Jeff is almost scared to stir, because that will mean that their night is over and it’s time to go back. That will mean dressing, heading back to town, finding an acceptable adolescent alibi, and then going home and trying not to think about it. All this will have to happen the moment he lifts his head off of Jimmy’s. So he doesn’t. 


	16. Spill

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Page/Beck

The light is almost blinding. They haven’t had a clear sky in so long; Jimmy’s not prepared. His already-narrow eyes have been screwed into a squint all day, and he keeps waiting for Jeff to give him his sunglasses. Frustrated, he merely snatches them off the other’s face. 

Jeff flinches away instinctually, and Jimmy scowls. 

“Why do you always do that? Scared?” That makes Jeff huff out one of his cynical little half-laughs. 

“Of you?” 

“I can be very intimidating, Becky.”

“Don’t call me that.” Jimmy just scrunches his nose, knows Jeff finds it cute. And, as expected, the other only rolls his eyes, and they continue to walk down the empty little street they’ve found themselves in. 

“You could’ve just asked,” Jeff says, sounding almost sullen, after a pause.

“For- oh, the sunglasses?” 

“I’d have given them to you.”

“Yeah, I know.”

“Then why-”

“I like touching your face, nimrod.” Jeff wasn’t expecting that; Jimmy wasn’t either. He hadn’t meant to be honest, the truth had just leaked out of him, slipped through a crack somewhere between his head and his heart and his mouth. 

That’s been happening to him more and more, these things just spill out. Jimmy can’t understand it. He’s spent so long being coolly apathetic about everything, never vulnerable or sentimental, just to impress people like Jeff. Jeff specifically, actually. And now, suddenly, all his work was for naught. 

Not that Jeff is mean about it, like a younger Jimmy would’ve expected. In fact, he always reacts with a sort of gentle bewilderment, like he can’t quite believe what Jimmy’s telling him. It’s like a stray animal still unaccustomed to affection, heart wrenching to watch but somehow worse to participate in.

Mercifully, he’s only had these little Freudian slips with small things. Frivolous little compliments that Jeff still can’t quite handle, small references to larger, scarier feelings. 

Christ, the other day he almost let an _I love you_ slip. He’s sure that they both know, at this point, but still can’t bring himself to say it. Saying it will mean that it’s real, will force them both to acknowledge and confront it. 

Even with the sunglasses on, the glare is nearly painful. They’re laughably cheap, so the frame keeps slipping down Jimmy’s little nose bridge. By the time he and Jeff have gotten over the unnamed shock and started walking again, Jimmy’s ready to pull them off. He lazily tries to put the glasses back on the other boy’s face, but Jeff catches his wrist before he can. 

“Be careful; you’re going to poke my eye out!” He scolds. Jeff holds onto Jimmy’s arm far after the point’s been made, warm and tight and far too strong for Jimmy’s liking. He’s always hated that about Jeff, the way he makes Jimmy seem fragile and cold and weak simply by sharing the same space with him. 

“I am not.” 

“You weren’t even looking.” Jeff lets Jimmy’s arm go, puts the sunglasses on. 

“Was too.” _God why do we have to be so childish?_

“Were not.”

“Was too.“

“Wer-“

“Your eyes are bloody gorgeous, why would I-“ Jimmy cuts himself off, realizing that he’s done it again. A beat of silence passes while Jeff tries pathetically hard not to smile.

“You really think so?” He speaks softly, as if afraid to be heard. This time, Jimmy manages to think before he says anything, instead of relying on their own increasingly careless rapport. 

“Yeah,” is what he settles on. It’s not like he could deny it once he’d said it- even Jimmy isn’t that cruel. 

“I like yours too.” 

“Aw, you’re so sweet,” 

“So are you, when you forget not to be.” 

“I adore you.”

“You too.”

“You’re wonderful.”

“Thank you.”

“I love you.” Here he hears Jeff inhale sharply, and pause. _Oh god. Oh god. Does he not- ah, fuck, I can’t believe I’ve done this, what the hell was I-_

“I know.” Another pause, then softly, “‘s nice to hear you say it, though.” There’s a charge in the air, and Jimmy knows he’s in tricky, tender territory. 

“A-and, you? Do you. . .”

“Of course I do.”

“Say it.” He pauses, folds the glasses and hangs them off his shirt, and does.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know every author’s note is an apology for the hiatus, but, sorry about that.


	17. Locked II

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Jones/Bonham

“Yes, hello, is there any way I could reserve a room 420, perhaps? No- no, sir, I’m serious. Yes, really. You have my word. Oh, all right, um, how about 69? You do? Perfect, thank you.” 

He hangs up, but stays stationary for half a second, briefly struggling to believe that this is his life. John hates to acknowledge the ever-growing strain of bitterness within, but there are times it’s simply too potent to ignore. He knows he does this to himself, doesn’t have to reserve his own place, doesn’t need to keep it secret. But he thinks the larger point is that they shouldn’t’ve made him want to. 

It doesn’t matter, this is just how things are done now. What good does it do to mope? 

“I’m staying in D69,” he says, leaning in a little for emphasis.

“Ha, like-“

“Yes, like the funny sex number. I requested it so you wouldn’t forget,” Jonesy snaps without meaning to. Alarmed at himself, he takes John’s hands in his, tries to apologize with gentle pressure. Bonzo pretends not to be hurt, laughs again. 

“Are you sure there isn’t any any other reason you might’ve chosen that number?” He says it suggestively, contorting his eyebrows.

“You’ll just have to wait and see,” he replies softly. Jonesy leans in even closer, enough that they almost touch, but stops just short of that. As he expects, Bonzo tries to close what distance there is immediately. John slides a hands up the other’s chest, very gently pushing him back. “Not now.” 

“But-“ He shushes him, kisses him lightly between his pretty hazel eyes. 

“You don’t have to wait any longer than you want to.”

“I’ll be right there.”

Afterwards, they both rush offstage, dress, drink, get into their separate cars and go their separate ways. Jonesy doesn’t stay out long, just enough to get in that floaty, pleasantly buzzed headspace. It doesn’t last as long as he’d like, however; he doesn’t run into Bonzo on his trip to room D69. When he gets there, despite the little rush of foolish hope to the contrary, there’s nothing waiting for him but four walls and a floor.

Jonesy places himself upon the untouched bed and waits. He waits. And he waits. He turns on the radio and waits. Time continues to pass, and still he waits. He picks at his nails and waits. He takes a shower and waits. He shoots a few cursory glances out the window, watches the smears of light as cars pass, lily white and poppy red.  _ I could be doing something, _ he thinks.  _ If he isn’t going to come, he could at least tell me. There’s a whole city out there, and here I am wasting five hours waiting for some asshole who’s never going to show up. _ It hasn’t been five hours, he notes, in fact it’s barely been one. But still. 

Eventually, after a repeating cycle of sitting down and pacing, Jonesy gives up and lies down, imagining the other finding him asleep from how long it’s been. He ends up on his back- tears can’t fall if your face points up. They just roll back into your head, back into your heart, give you something to mull over for the next while. Ample song material. Really, he should thank him for this- the youths love the unrequited love songs, he’s been told. 

Jonesy is, on some level, shocked at himself. He isn’t really about to cry, is he? Despite the hot headache that comes with holding tears back, despite the unwelcome moisture in his nose and the burning pinpricks at the corners of his eyes, it doesn’t make sense to him that he can react this way; he can’t quite accept it as reality. He’s used to being forgotten; he’s a goddamned bassist, a session man even. He’s made himself a millionaire just by being ignored. 

That’s how the Johns ended up so close in the first place. Bonding over one another’s immense talents and the feeling that they might be the only ones to notice. He still remembers the first time they met, the four of them, remembers that sweet thing they stole from Tim Rose looking at him with a kind of reverence he either hadn’t managed or hadn’t bothered to disguise. He still remembers the strange warmth that came with being esteemed, not as a useful tool in the studio machine or as part of a whole band, but on his own merits. It felt selfish to enjoy it so much, to want it in the first place, but he couldn’t help but try a little harder after that. 

And here he is, lying forsaken well into the night. John resists the urge to roll over to look at the clock again, but he does sit up, restless.  _ Should I go look for him?  _ He looks at the door.  _ Maybe he’s forgotten the room. _ Without meaning to, he clenches his jaw, mildly enraged. He went through the most humiliating phone call of his life so that dumb asshole would remember where he was; if he forgets, he’s on his own. 

Again, John’s surprised to find himself reacting so strongly. This is just how they do things now. It’s his own fault for coming back early and just assuming that the other would do him the same favor.

_ Oh, _ he realizes with a sigh,  _ he’s going to be drunk again, isn’t he? _ He wonders what he expected. What is he even waiting for, at this point? What’s the use? After all this time, he’s not going to be glad to see John even on the off chance that he finds him sober and apologetic and romantic. He just doesn’t want to deal with him. 

A thought occurs. He’s been idly looking at the door all this time, but suddenly the lock snaps into focus. Jonesy doesn’t want to acknowledge the little rush he gets imagining it, the power play. The concept of punishing the other man, for lack of a better word, is as seductive as it is wrong. He knows this. He knows that his role is to be loving, patient, gentle. And he always is. He knows all that. He would never. 

Another five minutes and Jonesy pads over to the door and twists the little knob. The heavy sound of the lock sliding into place, satisfying as it is, shocks him, and he jerks away as if burned. 

Another restless minute or so, the guilt overwhelms him. How could he be so cruel? How could he even consider it? Soon, he tells himself as he unlocks the door, Bonzo will get here and everything will be normal. 

But the possibility keeps gnawing at him. John allows another fifteen minutes to pass before he gets frustrated again. *It’s not his fault,* he tries to tell himself. *It’s hard to say no to all of them. He’s so sweet, so much of the time.* Again, Jonesy knows all of this to be true. But deeper down, he’s tired of doing this every night, tired of coming second to the booze and the coke and all the other vices. After a few seconds rapidly turning the lock in and out, trying to pretend that he isn’t serious, Jonesy locks the door. 

More time passes blearily, and just as he finds himself on the edge of consciousness, somebody tries to open the door. For half a second, he almost calls out, assumes that it’s room service he forgot about. But the memory hits him like a sack of bricks. That’s his John out there.  _ He remembered. _

Jonesy lays there frozen, even as his lover starts to knock. He wants to get up, let Bonzo in, apologize for his absentmindedness and move on, but he can’t seem to make himself move. He just holds his breath and waits for him to go away. 

He does, seemingly. Jonesy still can’t believe himself. But he’s already gone this far, it’s not like he can run out into the hallway now. He doesn’t even want to think about tomorrow. Probably he’ll be a coward and claim that he fell asleep. 

But then John comes back. He starts knocking again, harder and louder like he’s desperate. It’s terrible, such that eventually Jonesy actually gets up to let him in, before a cold dread of the ensuing conversation and the other man’s face stops him. He starts pacing again. With every minute that passes, it seems crueler to keep him out, but more frightening to let him in.

“John?” Oh god. “It’s me; you can let me in.”  _ He sounds so hurt. _ Again, Jonesy almost unlocks the door, but backs away at the last second. 

The merciful side of him does win, but only at the last possible minute. Eventually, Bonzo just  _ gives up _ , audibly falling to the floor, slumped against the door. But he still doesn’t leave. He still expects to be let in, still trusts Jonesy to do so. He’s punished him enough, now it’s just excessive. Deep down, he can even be touched by his lover’s dedication. John is startled, and gazes up at him for a moment while he sways in the doorframe. 

“Baby I’m so-”

“Just- just come in.” He leans down to help him up, and his heart breaks at how hard John hangs on, like he’s afraid that he’ll be denied again. Jonesy pushes him through the door as quickly as possible, closes it shut behind him. He doesn’t want to acknowledge the way his hands quiver when he tries to lock it again. John looks like he doesn’t know how to ask what he wants to. 

“You’re probably wondering why-“

“I know why.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> By popular demand


	18. Honeymoon

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Jimbert

“Let’s go.”

Robert doesn’t need to be told twice. His heart is racing. He can hear it pounding dully in his ears; he can fucking _feel his pulse._ He’s still all hyped up from the performance, surrounded by light and sound and movement, trying to slow his breath. Robert clings onto Jimmy’s frail hand like a lifeline, blindly letting the other lead him to where he imagines the car must be. It’s such a delicate thing, Jimmy’s hand, but it holds his so tight, like a vice. 

Robert slams the door almost sooner than they’ve thrown themselves into the car, and as they take off, Jimmy slides down the seat. His hair trails behind, stuck to the leather with static. It’s so striking, night-black against the creamy leather, against his ghostly pale face. Robert smiles, watching his lover’s wiry torso heave, basking in his own pride. 

“Pace yourself, Pagey. You won’t have any energy left to make love.” 

“Go fuck yourself then,” Jimmy half mutters, lolling his pretty little head to the side. 

They dart through the hotel faster than they had raced to the car, and Robert lets Jimmy lead the way again. As soon as they’re safely within the room, door closed and locked, they’re immediately wound up around one another. Hands pull at overpriced, hip clothing without rhyme or reason, eager to find flesh but unsure of how to. Robert leans against the door, instantly satisfied with how Jimmy falls against him. 

Jimmy abruptly pulls away. Robert, obeying his instincts, holds onto him tighter and follows the other’s body away from the door. Jimmy puts a hand on his chest, gently pushes him back against the hardwood. _Oh, is he going to- Oh._

“I have something for you,” Jimmy says instead. He turns away without another word, and the only thing Robert manages to say is another,

“Oh.” _So he wants it slow now?_ Robert struggles to keep up. He’s suddenly aware of the wood pushing against his hands, the dampness of his hair, his own space in this room, how small it is. 

When Jimmy turns back to him, he holds out a small box, the flimsy kind that clothes come in. He looks at Robert expectantly, a slight smile playing on his lips. 

“Go on then.” Jimmy seems particularly excited. _Should I be worried?_ Robert opens the gift slowly, only occasionally breaking his suspicious gaze at Jim to glance at his hands.

Percy unfurls his gift, letting it fall nearly to the floor, and finds it to be some kind of lingerie, lacy and white. He looks up at Jimmy, now even more certain. 

“You want me to wear this?” Jimmy half laughs. 

“Don’t say it like that! I thought you’d like it.”

“I thought we said no girly stuff?” 

“Well, yes, but-”

“But you chose not to listen to me?” 

“No, Percy, I just- I saw it, at a store, and it reminded me of you.” 

“It reminded you of me?” Robert looks the thing up and down again. “How?”

“Look at the tag.” _He’s so adamant._ Robert does as he’s told. Somehow reading what’s written is almost worse. He hardly knows what to say. 

“Bridal lingerie?” Jimmy says nothing. As if it’s self evident. As if there’s nothing he needs to say. Is that how Jimmy thinks of him? A blushing bride, innocent and meek? A virgin, sweet and pure- but a whore too. But only for him. 

He shouldn’t be taking it like that. He knows that it was theoretically very sweet. Maybe Jimmy is trying to say that he wants to be together forever. That seems unlikely- Jimmy quintessentially can’t or won’t recognize that any time will ever come that isn’t now- but maybe. Maybe he thought it was romantic, like that would somehow prove that Robert means more than all the girls. _Maybe he could learn that I’m not one. That would help._

Even that reeks of Robert reading too deeply into it. This is a case of Occam’s lingerie. As complicated and intricate as Jimmy considers himself, he‘s often a simple man. More likely than an elaborate message, the bridal lingerie had probably been a shallow whim; Jimmy just thought Robert would be pretty in it. 

Not that he’s likely to be wrong. Robert hates wearing that kind of thing, but he can’t deny how fetching it always looks on him. 

“Baby?” Jimmy says, far too quietly, all insecure. He sounds like he thinks Robert is angry, and he realizes that he’s gone all inside his head again. He shakes himself off. 

“I- that was really sweet of you baby.”

“You don’t have to say that.”

“I know I don’t have to.” Jimmy takes a step closer. He gently puts his own hands over Percy’s, still clutching the flimsy fabric. Apparently fully assured, he changes his tone, back to sensual, thinly veiled anticipation. _Veiled._ The damned thing came with a veil too. God, how tacky. 

“You should put it on, maybe. Just to see.” 

“Just to see how it looks?”

“Just to see if you might like it. You never know.” What will he do, Robert wonders, if he doesn’t look right? It seems like Jimmy has an idea already of what he’s supposed to look like, what he’s supposed to be. “Go on.” 

So he does, because what else is he going to do? Jimmy’s gotten into one of those moods, where he all but writes a script for the evening earlier and gets all stuck in a rut if Percy tries anything else. 

“Fine, but I’m taking a shower first.”

It’s far prettier with him in it. With real substance inside, filling it out, giving it a shape and a form. Robert even understands that, aesthetically, he looks good in it. Swathed in white, the fading tan he’d been so proud of in the summer is still noticeable. It’s pretty; with his hair all freshly groomed and fluffed and golden, he looks angelic. His hair is loose; the veil sits abandoned on the counter. This is probably what Jimmy was imagining when he bought it, not some dry discussion about boundaries they’d had months ago.

Robert emerges. Jimmy had been idly looking through his horoscopes, but he leaps up when he hears the door open, bounds over as fast as he can in a few long strides. He has such a sweet little smile, sometimes. Especially when he doesn’t think about it, when he lets it take over his whole face. His teeth are so charming, with their slight displacement. 

“Do you like it?” He says it so coyly, like a schoolboy of a sudden. As if he hasn’t done this thousands of times. 

“Clearly you do.” Robert looks down, suggestively, gives him a little squeeze where he knows it counts. 

“Not what I asked you.” How sweet. But does he really want to know? 

“I don’t know that I like it, per se, but I don’t hate it.” Jimmy did not expect this. His face falls a little.

“Well, you can take it off then, if you like.” Jimmy tries to say it all casual, like he isn’t disappointed, and Robert wants to appreciate the effort. Maybe he _is_ getting better. 

“It’s fine.”

“No, you can-“

“Jimmy,” Robert almost wants to chuckle in his exasperation. “It’s okay.”

“You do like it?” 

“I can wear it, just for a night. For you.” Again, Jimmy beams. His hands start to roam, so sure at the slightest permission, thumbing Robert’s chest through the webbing of lace thinly spread overtop, running a finger over the inside of a garter, gently clasping at the back of his neck. Robert leans into it a little, hoping the foreplay won’t be too excruciating. 

He tries to take the thing off once they’re done, once it’s throughly disheveled and dampened and stained, but Jimmy again seems to object. Robert finds his slim form wrapping around him like a grapevine, holding tight. It’s almost too tight for him to move, and Robert’s too tired to struggle. So he doesn’t. He pulls the thin strip of fabric out of his perineum, to hang damply around his thighs, but that’s as far as he’s willing to take it, for now at least. 

“Happy honeymoon, baby.” Jimmy chuckles, and Percy can feel the vibration against his own throat. 

“I do.” 

“We should’ve done it in a church.” Jimmy hums. 

“I suppose fucking you on an alter would be a great accent to the whole satanist angle, no?” 

“You should’ve bought me a ring.”

“I have a few, in my suitca-” 

“Not that kind! Perv.” They laugh again, or at least let out vague, exhausted sounds of approval. There’s another pause. 

“I guess we’ll be together forever, now.” Percy can’t help but sigh.

“I suppose so.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I meant to apologize for the hiatus, again, but I’m sure you expected that.


End file.
